


The Dream Chaser

by Ticigi



Series: On the Nature of Daylight [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (actually it's more like potion use lol), (no minors when this happen), Anal Sex, Blackcest (Harry Potter), Consensual Underage Sex, Drug Use, M/M, Minor Character Death, Not Canon Compliant, Seer Regulus Black, Sibling Incest, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:40:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27463567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ticigi/pseuds/Ticigi
Summary: Regulus rightfully accepts the reveals of his Sight, and Sirius fights his own battles, blinded off of his cruel surroudings. Regulus protects him in the only way he knows.
Relationships: Bellatrix Black Lestrange/Rodolphus Lestrange, Orion Black/Walburga Black, Regulus Black & Bartemius Crouch Jr., Regulus Black/Sirius Black
Series: On the Nature of Daylight [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1825267
Comments: 14
Kudos: 61





	1. Wandering Lights far into the Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of "Thoughts of a White Rose on a Darkened Garden"  
> The story is finished and all I need to do is to proofread the next two chapters, so probably they will all be posted until tomorrow or the day after (actually, my plan was to just finish everything and post all chapters at once, but I'm too anxious to wait lol)

Laid on the grass, one of Mother’s cigarettes – slowly burning and forgotten, emanating together with it’s smoke a strong scent that he didn’t particularly like between his fingers – Sirius poundered about his amoralities with a clash of guilt and rampant desire.

He was corrupting Regulus, his own flesh and blood – the very reason that put what they were doing as wrong.

When he pulled the back of Regulus’s thin, pale neck to himself three Christmas ago, and sealed their lips, robbing him of his innocence – the first of many times – on the same ground he now laid on, did he start digging for his own punishment? 

At night, when Regulus opens his door so quietly after many times learning the hinges of the door and the faint sounds of bare feet stepping on the hardwood floor, and, without a word, because they are no longer needed after nearly four years of their...encounters _,_ lays by his side, so heavenly tempting with his pretty features, cheeks blushing with a pale shade of pink, soft, lithe forms cut by sharp hip bones and smooth frailty for Sirius’s to protect and delight in, was he dragging his Regulus down with him to eternal suffering, wherever their souls will wander to when they leave their bodies?

He could hardly control himself, especially after the night of his brother’s birthday, when he proffered lies to his friends, picked him from Slytherin dorm after curfew, led him to the Room of Requirement and carved himself even deeper in immorality, gifting Regulus with damnation; but those immaculate, white tights are perfection when he taints them with deep shades of purple from sucking and biting, marking them as his and covering them in apologetic kisses, buries his nose to smell the vanilla from his shampoo, twirls his tongue around pink nipples and descends through the flats and concaves of his stomach with the lightest pecks to reach between his legs and tastes the hot flesh he finds there, catching the breathless murmurings beneath him asking for more – how could he deny Regulus the fulfilment of his panting desires, demandings with such an enticing voice, and himself the addictive pump of Regulus’s seeds going down his throat? 

The memory sent a spark of life to his loin, but he ignored the heat; dinner, by the last of sunset lights on the sky above, should be announced soon, and he could wait until after that to find relief with more substance than memories in Regulus’s soft skin.

He had yet to bury himself in that warm body, but he knew, he knew that the moment he takes Regulus completely, cut will be the ties with the remainants of sanity that allows him to feel guilt and whispers that what they’re doing is sin in its purest form. And all because of the red, thick substance running inside their veins, binding and prohibiting. Immutable. 

The fire consumed the remnants of the cigarette by his side, untouched.

He didn’t particularly like smoking. Though it wasn’t unpleasant, what he truly seeked was the excitement in the wrongness of stealing something from Walburga and consuming it in her property. A small act of rebellion, coming from someone whose worse transgression put this small robbery to shame.

He wondered what would be her reaction if she caught them; if in her tempestuous nature she would raise her wand at him, their firstborn, their heir, and allow the fury and darkness of her magic to spill his oh-so-special blood for corrupting her beloved Regulus; if Orion would intervene, expel him and devise lies to keep the reputation of their new heir pristine; if Regulus would cower and stay rooted to a shaded corner, small and trembling, or if he would display some of the smooth determination reserved for his seeker position at Quidditch matches and defend him somehow – most likely not, he was a slytherin for good reason, always cautious and unwiling to put himself in a trail of fire. Sirius almost preferred this way. At least they wouldn't hurt him. Moreover, being courageous was what made Sirius distinguished among his family.

  
  
  


Mother seemed pleased when she announced their trip to the beach house, in a lovely summer holiday with uncle Cygnus, aunt Druella and cousins. Sirius tightened his hold on the silver fork, observing the nuances of Father's expression, the person sitting directly across from him, finding the slightest amount of annoyance in the eyes – the only part to ever denounce what he was thinking. It was a shared feeling, although Orion’s annoyance was resumed to Cygnus, his cousin and brother in law, and his tiring temper and less than refined manners – and perhaps something else, since he knew Orion dealt with similar wizards but seemed to hold a special kind of dislike for uncle Cygnus – whereas Sirius’s annoyance was directed at everyone but Regulus. He would much prefer to send Apus, their owl, to James and spend the remaining holiday time with the Potters, but at the same time he didn’t want to leave without his brother – and no way Reggie would want to part with him, especially not to Prongs. 

Those family holidays changed little, so if you’ve been to one, the rest becomes a pointless repetition: support of political views with negative positions on muggleborn rights, bigotry in general, uncle Cygnus snapping at his wife and daughters over insignificant matters and aunt Druella permanently tipsy, frequently spotted drowning in wine while pretending she wasn’t miserable and failing; her smiles always faltered too fast after the corners of her lips were lifted, her dark brown eyes always a little too tense for someone smiling and she gulped the wine with eagerness, a tad too much for a high-society lady – but that could pass as her not being a true Black, growing up as a Rosier, and therefore, not possessing their same level of finesse, or so he heard Mother complaining to Lucretia once. But being a Black or not, any woman would end up a miserable drunk if married to Cygnus, especially being tied to an arrangement over a juvenile mistake and carrying the terrible sin of not giving birth to a male scion.

Well, at least Andromeda could be mildly nice, he would get to swim and stargaze by the sea with Reggie, and if he was lucky, he could get to make a little excursion to see how the local muggles lived; the only time he got away with a brief escape was an adventure. To watch how differently they dressed, the nice flow of their language being spoken with much more casualty than he was used to among his family, the easy laughs – so different of their uptight manners, too restrained to fully enjoy any occasion, ever so incarcerated by the worry for judgements – on the street market stalls full of colorful handmade objects, seashell collars and amazing local cuisine.

  
  


Later in the privacy of his room, as he kissed Regulus under trembling candlelights, tongue sliding gently into the eager mouth, he wondered where would they be after Hogwarts, and his thoughts were led to the utopy of a warless world, with no pureblood supremacy _cult,_ in an awfully domestic set, with himself working as an Auror or Cursebreaker – or even an unspeakable, the job sounded intriguing enough, as long as it didn’t involve being stuck in a lab or office all the time – and Reggie, ideally, staying at home, _their own home,_ simpler and cozier than the house they were born in, with no worries other than finding ways to kill time and dealing with the Sight and the sickness that culminated from it. The idea of himself being able to provide for and take care of his brother, as hypothetical as it was, filled his chest with pride. The image of taking over as Head of the family and prospects of the dynamics of any interactions aside from the ones between both of them were carefully waved away.

He knew such thoughts nurtured dangerous expectations; that hoping is to let himself unprepared for disappointment, and yet couldn’t shut them out completely. In a glimpse, he could see from the outside how bizarre would be such a life, to play married with his younger brother, but it was gone soon enough and his full attention was once again in the debauchery under him, skin sensing Regulus’s warmth while he pulled him to sit on his lap for a long-lasting kiss before removing his clothing with practiced ease, tossing them carelessly on the floor – to the younger’s dismay – hands wandering down, finding his arousal and drinking in the sweet gasp that left those lips, coloured in deep scarlet, wet and swollen from their kisses.

Initially brushing his thumb over the tip, earning another alluring sound, he closed his hand around the shaft and moved keeping a steady pace, Regulus’s soft – _such a pampered little prince_ – and warm hand pressed his crotch before sliding into his pajama pants, pulling his cock out and mimicking the movements, going up and down, erratic, without the same experience and surely affected by the sensations, but more than enough to make him grow harder, which caused him to firmer his grip a bit and go faster, more eager, hearing as their breathing grew heavier as time passed, filling the room as well as the occasional moans; sealing some of those sounds by kissing the mouth where they came from with longing and a bit of possessiveness. After all, he too was used to getting _almost_ everything he wanted and never having to share.

“Sirius, I’m close,” Regulus warned between gasps, while pressing his tights firmly on his brother’s hips, strings of sweat forming on his forehead, blushing and utterly embarrassed, “It’s alright, Reg, come for me,” and under Sirius's comandment not much longer he released, momentarily abandoning his task, eyes half lidded and glassy, Sirius's name coming out breathy and low, with need and devotion and many meanings imbued.

His pale torso, under small flames that illuminated the room with a golden tone, was gleaming with seed, a sight that never failed in awake something in Sirius, and he moved forward to suck Regulus’s neck and leave purple marks, harsh and demanding, which prompted a pained but delighted whimper, followed by a couple of light kisses on the same spots as a muted apology; Sirius felt the movements around him resuming, thin fingers sliding faster on his hot flesh, despite the younger boy’s evident tiredness, until he too came, grunting and breathless, adding to the white mess on their minds and stomachs and the sheets beneath.

Watching his brother lay with a satisfied smile, Sirius took care of cleaning the mess, extinguishing the flames, submerging the room into blackness, then climbed to the bed to settle beside Regulus, covering both and putting his arm around the smaller boy's waist, kissing him one last time in the dark, before letting exhaustion take over.

The moon and faint yellow lights bathed Regulus’s bed every night, any attempts to close the curtains adamantly vetoed by the boy’s fear, but lights were a disturbance to his own sleep and in his bedroom, things were done on his way, with no yellow lights, candles or curtains open; fortunately, it seemed like the constant contact of their skin as well as his voice was enough to tame the surge of panic. His will was respected, and in reciprocity, he never complained over Reggie’s sleeping arrangements, despite taking longer for him to sleep, and never let go of him whenever silence filled his room until he was sure to hear the slow and steady breathing of his brother’s sleeping form.

While Kreacher moved their belongings and organized the wardrobe, their clothing floating in organized lines from their trunks to hangers, humming contentedly, possibly for doing chores under Regulus’s orders – no matter how much Sirius loathed that wretched thing, he could acknowledge that the house elf genuinely nurtured some fondness for his brother – he felt his brother moving closer, and in a bold movement stood on his toes to end their height difference and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. They faced each other and shared a silly smile before looking forward again, noting how the elf didn’t move differently in the slightest, keeping the same stiff arm movements to continue the flow of clothes in the air.

The room was a bit larger than his own, in lighter colors and furniture similar to the rooms from Grimmauld Place, set with two beds – but they’ll probably end up using one, unless they manage to fight and Reg gets all moody with his pouting and silent treatments – and a balcony with a nice view to the sea. Watching as his brother walked to open the french doors to access the balcony, sunrays accentuating with golden light the rare contentment on his handsome features, Sirius forgot about his backup plan of going to the Potters.

After supper, they had wine under the stars at the patio, with a fresh breeze and the rumbling of waves breaking at distance, as Druella, swirling her glass, talked extensively about the progress of negotiations with the Malfoys, regarding a betrothal. Narcisa seemed excited at the subject, intervening every once in a while, in all her sheltered naivety, to brag about what she found to be endearing about Lucius Malfoy. _There’s nothing, really, but poor Cissy couldn’t see that,_ thought Sirius. For once, he agreed with his grandfather, in his distaste of Malfoys in general. After their last family soirée, as soon as Cygnus bit his farewell, a very blunt – and cranky, getting much worse as he aged – Arcturus was complaining about how Malfoys haven’t quite matched their level of tradition, and how Abraxas’s behaviour was not far from a street vendor at Knockturn Alley when it came to gold: insufferable and greedy – apparently, a recently-formed impression and a particularly upsetting subject after a rumoured hint for a raise on Narcissas’s dowry, as if it wasn't a honour, at least according to the oldman, to get betrothed to a Black. 

Airheaded as she can be, Cissa wasn’t an entirely bad person – that would be Bellatrix – and could certainly do better. Her dreams for life seemed to be far too simple for a family so entangled with dark magic and bigoted politicians as the Malfoys. The same could be applied to the Blacks, so if she played her cards wisely, a marriage could be the perfect – and only – escape from a complicated life.

Bellatrix, with guarded enthusiasm, was following along, answering Mother’s questions about her upcoming wedding ceremony to Rodolphus Lestrange in boring details and occasionally fixing her dark eyes at Regulus; on one of the times with such a small and brief smirk Sirius wasn’t entirely sure if it wasn’t just a product of imagination. Regardless of the smirk, the sudden interest left him apprehensive; her gaze held some malice, and, although it was a fairly common sight, Bellatrix’s attention on Regulus never meant anything good and he would have to keep an eye on her.

Andromeda was the quietest, staring for most of the time at the glass she was holding and kept her answers at the occasional subtle put-downs from her mother for turning down every bachelor suggested, her answers monosyllabic whenever possible. The way she avoided Druella’s eyes, tracing circles, slowly but incessantly around the glass, was suspicious. Andy always looked in the eye when talking to someone. And if _he_ noticed, as much as he hated to admit not having the best observational skills out there, then surely someone else did. Sirius turned his head, hoping to find some sign of shared suspicion, but instead met Reg’s blank face. He could ask later. And warn about Bellatrix too.

  
  
  


Sirius was on his bed flipping the pages of a Quidditch magazine absentmindedly, despite the red wine and the late hour, not feeling sleepy in the slightest, occasionally glancing out the open door to the balcony, where Regulus stood with his gaze fixed on the same point for quite a long time, supporting his elbows on the white marble parapet.

“What are you thinking about?”

That seemed to startle Reg from his thoughts, but his only answer was a faint sound, so Sirius insisted, “You’ve been staring at the same spot for at least half an hour, you must have been thinking of something. I mean, the view is nice, but I don’t think it’s _that_ nice.”

Not deviating his eyes, this time Regulus answered, only disregarding Sirius's question completely.

“Siri? Do you think we have much longer?”

He shouldn't have asked. Regulus’s tone was vulnerable and longing and he didn’t have a clue about what was the right answer, or even if he wanted to think about that to answer.

He stood up and walked to meet the figure outside in a vain attempt to formulate an acceptable answer, even if one to change the subject. When he reached his brother’s back for an embrace, resting his head on a bony shoulder, Sirius looked in the same direction and spotted what must have inspired the problematic question: the silhouette of two figures in the sand, near the water, standing close to each other. Even with the precarious light from the crescent moon above, it’s pale light glimmering over the blackened waters but not enough to see much beyond that, their parents, facing the sea and with their backs turned to the house, were unmistakable. The contours of Walburga’s updo weren’t distinguishable in detail, but he saw the same hairstyle too many times to not know. 

Orion’s back was a constant image through his childhood; a _paterfamilias_ that had too many responsibilities over his shoulders and too little time to bother sparing it for children’s plays. 

He remembered when Reggie was four and in all his innocence called him _papa,_ having heard a french relative to the Lestranges say it in a gathering at a _Bordeaux_ tea room; Father’s bemused expression was comic. So was little Reggie’s red face upon realizing his mistake.

Despite any display of affection among his parents being quite a rarity, Sirius knew they worked well, not indifferent to each other as one might think at first glance, against all odds of an arranged marriage between cousins with contrasting personalities. 

Regardless of not holding hands or having any direct contact – in fact, everything but the water and the small waves provoked by the light winds made a static composition, two figures facing the sea and doing nothing else – the atmosphere leaned towards intimacy and evoked a childhood memory. 

It was a night where he was feeling particularly energetic and unwilling to obey bedtime. Taking a reluctant Regulus downstairs with him to find candy in the pantry – back then, Sirius suspected Reg’s big bright eyes and his habit of carrying around a silly stuffed owl, Pyxis, around had quite an effect on their parent’s near nonexistent leniency whenever they were caught breaking a rule, thus making his little brother’s presence a necessity whenever a mischief was planned – as they passed through the drawing room they noticed the ajar door, the golden light escaping and illuminating the dark corridor together with the low sounds of the piano luring them in. 

With slow, careful steps, he began walking to peer through the opening, hearing the muffled sound of Reg’s socked feet behind him. As he touched the door, very lightly, and inclined his head to get a better look, with Reggie bending under him to do the same, Sirius remembered being quite astonished when his eyes focused inside the room. The piano keys were magically playing a waltz, and at the center of the room, for the first time, he spotted a moment of intimacy between his parents, dancing to the piece and completely unaware of the intruders. His Father was not wearing a robe, his attire reduced to his trousers, white shirt, tie and a waistcoat, one hand taking his wife’s, the other palm placed on the small of her back, with the golden signet ring on his finger, marked with the family crest, shining over the dark fabric of mother’s dress; Walburga had her long, black hair down and was dressed in the most simple way, striped of the usual displays of wealth such as her many jewels and the heavy, layered skirts of her embroidered gowns; instead, her dress was simple and modest, the only jewel she was wearing was the golden band, her marriage ring, on the left hand, and she was looking up at Orion without a trace of regal arrogance or discontentment. Their rhythm was off, too slow, but they didn’t seem to mind in the slightest; in fact, they seemed too absorbed to acknowledge the piece as more than background noise.

That was the most relaxed, most _affectionable_ Sirius had ever seen them.

Despite his history of doing much worse than spy through a door, it felt strangely wrong to keep watching, like they were interrupting something important even though their presence by the door wasn’t making any difference. Reg must’ve thought the same, for having retreated first, not muttering a word about the very out-of-character behaviour of their parents as they continued the original path to sugary bliss.

That was about the only time Sirius saw them in such modesty and tenderness, and the scenario had such a strong impression that it made him see them in a different light – there was more to their rigid discipline and cold demeanors, to Mother’s fits of rage and to Father’s indifference than they allowed their small and exclusive world to see, including their offspring.

Despite, in a very loose way, sharing the nature of secrecy in their relationship, since what Regulus and he have is surely his biggest secret among a plethora of others, and their parents believing to be necessary to hold back public displays of affection aside from the occasional pat in the shoulder when Father leaves the dinner table before Mother, or when he spends too much time locked up in his study and she ignores his requests to not be interrupted with a tray of tea or an obvious excuse such as searching for a book or document, and formal interactions to each other in the public eye, something that seemed as commonplace within pureblood marriages, Sirius hoped to – aspired to – be a polar opposite from them in everything else.

They were his guide in life, an inverse one, to defy and subvert. Their stiffness was carcering, and he craved for a freedom that he had glimpses of whenever he was at school and forgot all about Grimmauld Place. Reg would probably find it foolishness, but for him, rebellion was almost a principle.

“I don’t know. But I’ll always want you.” That was the most comforting he could be without resorting to dishonesty.

And in all its troublesome implication, it was true; the day when his cowardice stops looping him to the same morality issues playing in his head while still committing the acts his conscience condemned and do stop this madness they have will be the first day of a yearning life, made of carefully hidden solitude and false faces.

Regulus’s longing eyes and sad little smile when he turned and looked up to face him, still trapped by Sirius’s embrace, was a silent reminder that the best he could muster was far from enough.

“Me too, I'll always want you,” his brother confessed quietly.

Sometimes, the word dependency appears in his mind and he worries that it, and not loving or caring, could condense the longing, the burning through his veins and the excited racing of his heart, and the idea of two people getting too close because they’re too broken and have no one else to connect to, no one who could possibly understand how poisonous and soul-consuming is their little world, making their bond unique and unreplicable in a deranged way is yet one more to the increasing list of subjects he’s not willing to think of.

He wondered if this was the reason behind Regulus’s habit of occasionally stealing wine from the cellar or calming draught from Mother’s cabinets and spending hours quietly looking with empty eyes at the ceiling of his room, seeming to dream away life with gulps of deep red or drops of blue with the faintest smiles on his full lips. Gazing at a universe of possibilities.

Sirius tried to follow his little brother’s steps once and lay beside him in the carpeted floor of his room with a dropper in hand, but found the experience to be too intense (that’s when he first learned freedom – or absolute detachment – could be intimidating); perhaps copying the dose of someone with a increasing tolerance to this particular potion wasn’t his best idea.

Thoughts of trying to make his brother stay away from such things passed through his mind, but how could he take Regulus’s escape away from him? Regulus was far more reserved than him regarding sharing his problems, and didn't have a tight, loyal group of friends such as the marauders. 

Regulus also seemed to care too much over small things, always too eager to fulfill expectations, from him and their parents. 

Or maybe it was Sirius who cared too little.

Regardless, his little brother was just too good for the ruthless and self-centered Blacks, and will definitely end up hurt for not standing to be a disappointment like himself.

The two figures down in the sand began moving; Regulus’s hand took his and led him back inside, before they could be seen.

The sounds of the mild and repetitive waves and the warm breath against his chest sent him to a dreamless sleep.

Bellatrix was standing before his brother on the sand. He saw them – Regulus and her – from the kitchen window, but they were too far for him to distinguish their expressions; with a disquieting sense of urge, after all he forgot to discuss his observations of the previous night with his brother, his tea was left forgotten on the counter as he headed outside. Regulus was sitting under a parasol with a book at his side, she kneeled next to him, and as Sirius got closer, he could see her smile – sultry and malicious, as he so often saw – while she put a strand of Regulus’s hair behind his ear and caressed one cheek, while Reg looked at her pleadingly, clearly uncomfortable with the contact, and said something inaudible to Sirius. Whatever he did say in response must not have worked; her smile deepened, her hand moving down to his chin, pushing his head to the side as she got closer to whisper something in his ear. 

By that point, Sirius was just a few meters away and, to caught their attention and make her _stop fucking touching Regulus when he was clearly uncomfortable,_ let a very audible “Hey!” And finally reaching them.

“So, what are you two talking about?” He said with false casualness, deciding to get straight to the point without provoking a fight and either get her to go back to the house or take Regulus somewhere else, away from her and whatever she was scheming. 

“Oh, nothing important, cousin, just a discovery of mine that I was sharing with little Reggie here,” she turned her head to meet Regulus’s gaze before continuing, “But it’s a rather private subject, so you’ll keep it a secret, will you, _Reggie?”_

Regulus, who absolutely despised being called by any nickname with the exception of Sirius, looked less than amused at the sickeningly sweet tone to mock and make a veiled – although very obvious – threat. 

His brother always seemed wary around Bellatrix, and with good reason, since he seemed to be a particularly interesting target for her, but apparently, Bellatrix just managed to irritate him enough to show underlyings of their Mother’s temper.

Sirius saw what must be the most obnoxious smile from Regulus, who, parroting the same false kindness in her tone, replied.

“Of course, Bella, I wouldn’t dare spill the contents of our conversation. But now that we finished our talk, I just remembered seeing an owl flying to the house, just about the time you were coming here. Perhaps it’s worth checking; you never know, might even be Rodolphus replying to one of your letters.”

That was bold. 

The same obnoxious smile was frozen at her face.

“Oh well, I’ll leave you with big brother Sirius then. You both seemed attached at the hip lately, or should I say–”

“Bye, Bella,” Regulus interrupted, raising his voice.

After a final smirk, without sparing a glance at Sirius, she walked away.

If one could point to a weak spot in Bellatrix’s strong character and seemingly perfectly arranged life, it would be Rodolphus Lestrange. She walks and speaks with the poise of a noblewoman, with the haughtiness and the confidence of a powerful witch having the world beneath her feet, but as soon as her betrothed steps in the same room, she stumbles to her real place, and her ego deflates to match her status as someone of higher birth, yes, but still a girl to be strategically married in a beneficial connection for the family, and who happens to actually nurture affections for her fiancée, with all the precipitate intensity of a teenager amidst the languor of a small, restrictive social circle finding a burgeoning potential in an older bachelor – who happened to be a distant cousin, but that was far from being impeditive among pureblood society – displaying glimpses of the darkness and intensity she possesses and craves.

Sirius remembered her at fourteen dropping her broom, when they were all playing games in the air (with the exception of Cissa, too worried with the state of her hair), in favour of rushing upstairs to paint herself upon an announcement of the Lestranges arrival at the anniversary dinner for grandmother (guests which, obviously, she hasn’t been informed of), how she normally isn’t a particularly vain witch, like her youngest sister, but in any occasion Rodolphus Lestrange was present, so was the rouge in her cheeks and her lips, the shiny emerald points at her updo – always elaborated on such occasions – and her lilting tone.

One of the very first times he caught her with Rodophus in the discretion of an empty hallway she was playing with her hair that way Sirius saw a million times girls do when talking to someone they’re interested in, and even trying to smile coily and use a soft, gentle voice and “ _Oh, Merlin, are you trying to imitate Regulus’s tone or something?”_

That day his mockeries ended up with an unstoppable flux of a bright pink viscous substance running down his nose and painful cramps. Bellatrix never used that particular tone again, giving preference to a falsely sweet voice with just a tad bit of mockingness and wildness of her true character in the right occasions that was enough to give her a reputation of having a strong personality among the three sisters.

Well, soft and gentle didn’t suit her, so in the end, pointing it out was almost a favour.

But rumors ran – alright, it was Mother and aunt Lucretia at their weekly afternoon tea, always a source of information that put periodicals out there to shame – that Rodophus spent a considerable amount of time and gold in a parisian brothel with a certain whore (one of the few times he caught Mother using foul language, certainly in solidarity to her undeserving niece), and didn’t seem particularly eager for married life, having even postponed the ceremony by over a year, when the initial arrangements were for a ceremony right after she graduated.

It made sense, considering that from their younger years to Bellatrix’s adulthood his blasé attitude towards her morphed to little more than casual attention. At the point when the first hint at a betrothal began, he had already graduated from Hogwarts, and she was still a schoolgirl in her fourth year and certainly didn’t hold any appeal for an adult man. But as much as Sirius hated to admit, Bellatrix grew to be one of the most stunning ladies among high society, and if her personality was terrible, so was Rodolphus’s.

At their small time at the estate, he saw her owl arriving empty-clawed a couple of times. On the last time, she hexed the imponent European eagle-owl to death, much to Regulus’s indignation – thankfully, Kreacher showed himself useful and did attempt to distract him with a freshly baked tray of biscuits and tea, but that wasn’t enough to refrain the glare he sent her way before leaving the parlour.

He wondered if time would slowly cause her persistence to decay and she would eventually give up and turn her long lasting infatuation to someone else, or let it die and turn her into an even worse person, with no redeeming quality.

Sirius sat beside his brother, picking a book from Regulus's hands and putting carelessly to his side.

“So...are you going to tell me what you two were whispering about?”

“No, it’s nothing important.”

“But If it’s not important, why are you refusing to tell?”

“Just leave it, alright? Maybe some time I’ll tell you, but it’s nothing to worry about. Just a little upsetting, but that’s Bella we’re talking about.” He dismissed, voice starting as a bit aggressive and decreasing down to a low, apologetic tone.

Regulus didn’t often raise his voice with him, and while it was annoying it also showed that it was certainly not something not to worry about. Especially considering the contexts her name came out lately. But while his brother usually ceded upon further pressure, for the sake of not fighting or being bothered with insistence for long, he only ever did for the matters he deemed as trivial and unworthy of trouble. 

Little Regulus used to always give away some of his toys and sweets at Sirius’s demands with no fight but actually threw a heavy genealogy volume at him when he insisted on taking his paints for art tutoring, because painting used to be Regulus’s favourite thing and later held his toy broom as hostage when Sirius sneaked in his bedroom and took what he was denied of.

No broom or paint containers were hurt in the incident; both parts pacifically exchanged the objects – Sirius tried to gain the upper hand and run with his brother’s paints _and_ his broom, but Kreacher, the mummy, was all too eager to obey Reg’s teary pleadings to stop him.

So, he took a deep breath.

“Fine.”

But he certainly would insist on the subject later, especially considering what he was suspecting; If Regulus was stubborn, so was he.

“Now, were you seriously going to spend another beautiful day reading when there’s a sea right in front of you? And–” He stopped to read the cover, frowning “– A book about dark rituals, no less? As your older brother, I command you to have some fun and come to swim with me.”

Regulus tried to rescue his book but Sirius was faster and picked it before he could.

“Really, Siri?” He pouted, “I can understand that reading for pleasure might be a difficult concept for you, but I’ll let you know that I was trying to peacefully finish this book just to be interrupted by Bella, and now you, so if you please–”

“All I’m hearing is that you had a boring morning, come on Reggie, you can go back to your book later. Now get up, so I can cast the sun protection spell on you.”

Regulus remained stubbornly seated, but he didn’t give up.

“You know I’ll pester you until you get in the water with me, and if I were you, I’d let me cast that spell, unless you fancy looking like a shrimp.”

Obviously, in no time Reg’s face was scarlet. He always hated beying mocked about the easiness he got sun burns.

“See? It’s already happening.”

“Ugh, fine.” After rolling his eyes, he stood up and crossed his arms. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you love me no less for it.” He answered, distracted by his wand work.

Regulus blushed again.

“Well, if I didn’t, who else would put up with your annoyingness?”

  
  


  
  
  


Bellatrix wasn’t a bother for long; she left on the following day and Sirius highly suspected that it had something to do with the reason she was only wearing long sleeves _._

_His_ followers needed to keep discretion, after all, they could get in serious trouble for being members of their homicidal little cult in public. And so, at the breakfast table before her departure his family was all knowing looks at her when the _Dark Lord_ ’s _cause_ surfaced in their conversation. 

Always speaking favourably, never openly admitting to be a filthy Death Eater.

Regulus looked wary, and having long mastered the art of subtlety, only added careful insights in between spoonfuls of porridge to the conversation. Not that the rest of them, being Blacks and all, didn’t hold a certain level of the same carefulness; openly approving a group that engaged in such tasteless activities such as raids wouldn’t match their usual approach – intricate power games carved in gold and politics – despite sharing the core of the ideology behind those acts. It would certainly be considered unbecoming of a Black by the elders, such as their great-aunt Cassie and Arcturus.

Orion took a similar route as his youngest child and remained remarkably neutral. Dismissive as the man was towards the social groups he deemed inferior, as far as Sirius could see, he always held a certain discontempt towards physical violence.

Sirius found the idea of kissing the hems of a self-titled lord’s robes ludicrous and certainly antithetical with the idea of pureblood pride he had to hear all his life, and so he said, after Bellatrix hinted some compliments to their latest antics. He earned a harsh reprieve from his lovely mother and the loss of rights to leave his room until dinner, despite legally being a bloody adult.

He considered disapparating, but once again, succumbed to Reg’s soft pleadings of _please, just cooperate this time or you won’t be able to come back, please I’ll make it up to you tonight. Bella is gone anyway and they never bring the subject on their own._

He really needed to work on his willpower.

  
  
  


True to his brother’s prediction, the remaining days were calmer. On the last day before returning to Grimmauld, Regulus finally opened up and confirmed his suspicions: Bellatrix was hinting at him to join the cause.

_Bitch. As if Reggie doesn’t face enough pressure from the family’s expectations to make up for me being a constant disappointment._

He would never let his little brother be marked by a coward who hides behind a false name. 

Probably the bastard was not even a pureblood, because knowing this lot through all his life, one thing he learned was that they were awfully proud of family name and lineage, and if this Dark Lord’s ancestrals shared the purity and tradition in their blood in common to his vassals, who blindingly kneeled before him, then surely there would be at least whispers about his ancestrality.

  
  
  


Being back at Grimmauld Place had, as always, casted a shadow over his good mood. It’s dark opulence gave him no comfort a home should have; the dark artefacts all over the house, the sneering portraits scolding him for stupid matters such as his posture, the old-fashioned decor that gave the place an atmosphere of a victorian mausoleum made for an unstettling combination that finally made him spend the remaing of the last week before the start of the term at the Potters, only returning a day before their departure.

That last night, Regulus entered his room with his usual nearly soundless footfalls and the right technique to lessen the squeak of hinges just as the clock on the mantel striked at eleven.

With flushed cheeks, his brother standed before him, who remained seated on his bed with crossed legs, and began to slowly undo the pearly buttons from his nightshirt with elegant hands, just enough of them to let the soft cotton slide off his shoulders to puddle around his bare feet, and his first words left Sirius with a racing pulse, because Regulus, exposed in all his alluring, lithe form, skin back to immaculate pale as a blank canvas that Sirius shall put his marks on with his fingers and mouth, as well as his gentle, lilting voice barely over a sigh shyly hinted that perhaps they could go _further,_ but Sirius shouldn’t, _wouldn’t_ dare. 

Because he had established, unbeknown by the one who now tempted him, that it would cross a line.

Pushing Regulus delicately by the wrist to sit on his lap, Sirius brushed his soft dark waves to plant a kiss behind his ear before whispering his excuses. 

“Do you know what you do to me when you ask so prettily, my Regulus? But we mustn't, not tonight, or you’ll face a very uncomfortable train ride tomorrow. Besides, you wouldn’t want the snakes wondering why you’re walking weirdly, would you?” 

“I don’t care, Sirius, I just wan’t–”

But Sirius swiftly closed his hands on Regulus’s waist and laid him down on the bed, placing himself above him, arms at both sides near his brother’s head before coaxing. “Shh, I told you, we can’t, let’s stick to what we usually do, and we talk about this another day, alright?”

“Fine.” Regulus conceded, sounding unconvinced.

Sirius pretended he didn't noticed. “Good. Then come give me a kiss.”

Regulus pushed himself up, supported by his elbows to close the distance between them and, once again, conceded.

And in no time, he was once again beautifully melting beneath him, with the same sweet gasps and delicate fingers tangling in jet-black hair as Sirius closed his lips around him.

Feeling particularly pensieve, for the sake of observing Regulus deep asleep, he let the candles burn in hovering light.

His smaller form was only partially covered by the sheets, having fidgeted a little in his sleep, displaying a good part of his chest and one leg up to mid-tight. Enough to see the satisfactory outcomes of his work.

But there was a disquieting awareness keeping him insomnious. 

Regulus’s last kiss felt as pleading; a muted message breathed through his full lips that escaped Sirius’s comprehension.

Merlin knows his brother could be as difficult as advanced Arithmancy to solve sometimes, giving next to no clues and requiring a long, carefully drafted train of thought, ridiculously closed and too well-versed at keeping blank faces and never telling directly if there was something bothering him. This time, though, Sirius got the impression of missing something important, that Regulus wouldn't openly say but was struggling to let him know regardless.

  
  
  
  


True to his senses, the next morning he found just what he was missing.

The weather out there, a heavy rain loudly hitting against his window and disguising the morning light with a ugly, nearly uniform shade of grey covering all the sky he could see from the wet glass, was just as dreary as what Regulus had to tell him. He grabbed his trunk and descended the stairs to the foyer as solemn as his ancestors at their portraits, for once shutting their trap and not having one negative word from him, approving of his miserable form walking with a straight posture and blank face matching perfectly with the house.

_I know this will sound sudden and I’m truly sorry, Sirius, but we mustn't keep doing this. I say this with both our best interests in mind, and I hope you’ll respect my decision. I will understand if you wish to keep your distance and will not bother you._

God, Regulus had looked so pained despite being the one to break things off that Sirius had to refrain from ending their distance and holding him tight.

_I’m sorry, I dread the thought of hurting you in any form, but surely you are aware this is wrong and bound to come to an end._

Contrary to what Regulus suggested, he hoped they could at least keep some contact, healthy contact. He didn’t want to pass by his brother as a stranger.

_I know, little one, I understand._

Regulus’s wishes were to be respected, he would make sure to not cross any limit.

Not again.

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed it! =)  
> English is not my native language, so if you find some grammar mistake or awkward phrasing, feel free to tell me. Constructive criticism is appreciated.


	2. Melancholy of a Spring Afternoon

  
At Christmas break, on the first day of festivities, Sirius came to Grimmauld Place just to hand him a gift, a nice pair of fingerless dragonhide gloves for Quidditch with his initials, went to the study for a brief discussion with Father behind closed doors, surely to inform him how much he loathed their lot and would never be their heir, though Regulus couldn't hear a thing due to Father’s privacy charms, and finally, to collect his things and leave under Mother’s incessants screams of _ungrateful_ _child_ , _unworthy_ _of_ _carrying_ _your_ _ancestor’s_ _name_ and derivations – thankfully, the guest were all outside, enjoying their cigarettes and the vast offer of alcohol. Just as Regulus predicted at the hospital wing, a few years ago, Sirius escaped from the grasp of a family he held no love for into a new, fresh life, surrounded by people he actually respected and cared for.

Gone along with the light of Regulus’s night, because all the grandeur of the festivities paled under the heavy strain of Sirius’s absence.

And no one but himself was to blame. 

As much as he truly wished for Sirius to find happiness, he couldn’t help but feel miserable about what exactly that would entail.

That it would happen away from him.

That Sirius would eventually want someone else and bury these past years deep as a shameful, inconsequential act, a secret to bring to his grave.  
Avoiding Sirius, acknowledging him only on inevitable occasions with distant politeness, spending time with the wrong crowd. Staying in the dungeons on his birthday, and not even sending an owl, though his quill was brought to use and a few rolls of parchment were filled with heartfelt wishes and dangerous confessions, only for the words to be discarded without being revealed to no one but the creator’s eyes.

It was bound to happen. 

Regulus tried. He truly tried not to completely ruin their bond, but it ached too much to stay close and yet not being allowed to close the distance, to feel Sirius’s hot breath and wandering hands; the soft lips against his own and the sharp bites that carved in his skin the feeling of being desired, worthy of his childhood model’s affections, needed. What he wouldn’t give to wake up in red and purple, to Sirius’s lazy smile and complain once more about his morning breath upon their kiss – secretly he didn’t mind it at all. He liked the vulnerable intimacy of waking up with Sirius; all dishevelment involved from coming back to the conscious world included.

To go to him and find the comfort he couldn’t find anywhere else but in his embrace and his silly jokes and that awfully loud laughter and feel as if it would be alright to reveal all the fears and dark thoughts of his mind and Sirius wouldn’t belittle their heavy weight on him, or think less of him for them.

All the details he once thought to give enough value, but coming to the discovery that they were to be valued a thousand times more as memories filled his mind and prickled his eyes with gloom.

But his carefulness was protecting both of them; Bellatrix’s message was clear. And if it culminated in Sirius’s departure, then fine. His brother was in his last year at Hogwarts, he was an adult and surely could look after himself. Besides, he had the support of Potter, with whom he shared a brotherly bond that made Regulus’s insides burn with hatred and jealousy. Hate for Potter for stealing _his_ brother, hate for himself for not knowing how to be a better brother to Sirius in first place.

Resentment for Sirius, blessedly unaware of the terror of being the chosen target for Bellatrix’s blackmail. Of the terror of his plaguing nightmares.

Or the torturing dreams where Sirius laid him down and kissed him oh-so-sweetly, and Regulus couldn’t know if it might be a Sight of something that could never be, not after he made his mind, or if it was just a product of his yearning mind.

She saw them, way before that day at the beach, when she came to him with a knowing smile and crude hints, committing him to become a death eater, “ _Because contrary_ _to_ _your_ _blood_ _traitor_ _of_ _a_ _brother,_ _little_ _Regulus,_ _I_ _see_ _in_ _you_ _respect_ _for_ _our_ _traditions_ _and_ _values,_ ” and making him break off things with Sirius before the start of the term, “ _See?_ _I’m_ _even_ _conceding_ _to_ _you_ _the_ _remainder_ _of_ _holidays_ _to_ _have_ _some_ _fun_ ,” under the menace of making sure his brother was sent to rot away in Azkaban as a pervert taking advantage of a minor and disgrace Regulus’s name among the family and all pureblood society for being weak-willed enough to submit. She was an accomplished legilimens, so with time she was bound to discover if there was any suspicion of seeing Sirius behind her back. Keeping Sirius out was a necessity, regardless of her demand, because if Regulus had to pledge himself to the Dark Lord, they would most likely end in bitter terms. 

Furthermore, he would join even without her hateful treats, because after so many nights of pain and sorrow and the uniquely horrid feeling of being scratched all over his body by basically dead corpses while being dragged underwater until the numbing sensations of imminent death overcomes the pain, he finally got the whole picture, and for whatever reason, it was _he_ who got the burden of knowledge, it became _his_ responsibility to chase the danger and possibly change the course of the upcoming war.

A horcrux. How desperate for power one must be to consider mutilating one’s own soul, by ruthless murder nonetheless, in a higly experimental ritual, since there was only scarse information on the subject?

While he wasn't particularly sympathizing with the muggle victims in the newspapers, for he never met someone without magic and couldn’t truly feel for a group practically unknown to him, he also didn’t necessarily support the idea of murdering them – to take a life for being inferior seemed closer to the personal indulgence he was used to watch in the form of the heavy mistreat of house elves for meaningless mistakes by bored wizards than a logical means to an end, since up to that point, his radicalism only seemed to attract a small portion – powerful, but small – of the wizarding community, leaving the Dark Lord’s ideals far from reaching major adderence. Making people truly believe in the ideals in opposition to trying to terrorize them to comply sounded like a more sustainable and safe path. Harder to accomplish, but safer. From what he could find in newspapers, Lord Voldemort seemed to take pleasure out of caos, too impatient and reliant on fear.

He wondered how many of his followers would choose to stay, and how many would regret bowing to someone who gives so little value to the point of tainting with the darkest magic something they all were raised learning to be sacred. If Bellatrix, in her growing fixation, would be shocked by the value he gave to his own soul or pleased to know that his ambition was limitless beyond the point of holding anything as sacred. Closer to a deranged dictator than a true leader.   
It was a pity, though, that he had no other way but to join and offer Kreacher to suffer, because otherwise, it would be impossible to find the cave with just the pieces he had collected in his memory, and only then Kreacher would be able to apparate there.

Although necessary for a greater good, it was despicable and utterly unnoblish of him.  
Poor, innocent Kreacher, that did nothing wrong and devotes his days to servitude and pointless pain from the Most Ancient and Most Noble House of Black, being submitted to mental torture, by the orders of someone who he certainly wouldn't expect to.   
Kreacher, who for many times was his sole company in childhood, in boring days when Sirius ditched him in favour of something or someone else, always so eager to play chess and hide and seek (though Regulus highly suspected the little thing took a habit of cheating on this particular game), as if he genuinely enjoyed his company.

For many times, long ago in lonely days, it certainly seemed as if he was the only one to feel so.

The distant clicks of heels on the hallway floor drifted him away from his thoughts as they were growing louder, closer, rhythmic and confident. For a moment, only silence, right after the sounds got close to his closed door and he thought Mother would call him or enter, but after the brief pause, the shoes began clicking again, getting away until Regulus heard the distinct sound of her heels on the stairs.

Deciding to go find her, for she certainly didn’t seem very well after the whole fiasco, Regulus went in the same direction, spotting her just as she passed through the threshold of the sitting room with the family’s tree tapestry.

She walked until facing the runaway scion, with dead eyes and rigid posture. 

It casted on her, a tenacious woman, the anchor of their household, a shadow of uncertainty, and judging by her balled fists, she was probably still very much enraged but trapping it all in a shell.

Mother was sad, of course, even though lately all she seemed to be able to express was her ire, and that was one more addition to the list of people – and elf – whose pain culminated from his actions. 

Sometimes, the burden of knowledge and all it’s burgeoning consequences felt too heavy.

He got closer, until she was within an arm’s reach before speaking.

“Mother?”

“Hm? Oh, Regulus Arcturus, it’s poor manners to go into an occupied room without making yourself noticed first,” she said, turning to him, startled.

“I’m sorry.”

“See?” She started, once again staring at Sirius’s name on the tapestry, “That’s the difference between you and that...that… ungrateful boy. When you make a mistake, you acknowledge it and move on, whereas he fools himself thinking he’s always with the reason, never considering himself at fault. Putting himself above any guidance when he’s still at school.”

“Oh, Mother, I–”

“And so, it would be pointless to insist on spending time and resources onto someone who does not wish to be guided, nor holds a shed of respect or consideration for this family. Sirius Orion made his egoistical wishes very clear today, and this time, I find myself agreeing with him: if he no longer wishes for a place in this house and this family, then he shall not be granted one.”

Her wand was pointed to the figure before her, and before the same dead eyes, flames consumed the image of her eldest son, and while there was this air of uncertainty about her, the sound of her voice did not wavered at the casting of the incendio. Resolute as a true Black.

Regulus knew something of nature was bound to happen, but it still stung seeing the darkened spot where just a second ago was the figure of their heir, his brother, his…his...

If Father agreed with her intention, which most likely was the case, the next step would be to send an owl to the family’s representative at the Wizengamot for the opening of a disinheritance process.

Which left him – unwillingly – in the position of their new heir.

Another matter to disappoint Mother and Father, because if everything goes according to his plan, they would be left with no one to pass on Father’s signet. Unless Sirius miraculously came back, but that was not to be expected at all.

But stepping back wasn’t an option. His loved one's safety was put to the test, behind nightmares and a well practised haughty face, and he mustn't deviate from his plans no matter how much this whole ordeal is affecting everyone.

So, he was getting quite proficient in pretending not to be affected at all.

“Mother? I was planning on having tea in the solarium, would you like to join me?”

  
For the first time, going back to Hogwarts was a relief.

The festivities, his favourite time of the year, were ruined by Mother’s sour mood upon Sirius’s leaving, conversations around the table coiling around the news but never speaking his name openly, as an attempt to ostracize the one who frequently, present or not, was at the center of their attentions; instead, there was a sudden interest about his grades and perspectives post-Hogwarts, and comments about how he was a good example, a good son, and would bring pride to their noble house. 

And Bella, making his heart skip a beat every time she opened her mouth. Of course, there was no good reason for her to expose what was her blackmailing material, but still.

She seemed so content at his fear that he could easily imagine her ruining his life just out of spite, for the entertainment of a second scandal served along with dessert.

A second scandal did happen, weeks later, just not the one he was fearing.

Andy.

He was having breakfast at the great Hall when Mother’s letter arrived, telling about how Andy went out for work – a sour topic for uncle Cygnus, who frowned at his daughter’s delay in marrying to do something he thought to be beneath a Black lady – just to not come back. Their house elf was sent to her, only to come back with a letter that ignited her place at the family’s tapestry into a dark spot. A blood traitor, Mother said. 

The idea of Andy leaving her family behind for a mudblood sitted heavy in his stomach; uncle Cygnus' daughters always had a little more freedom than Sirius and he and less expectations upon them. They got to pick bachelors and refuse proposals, Andromeda got to pursue further education after school and posteriorly work despite it being frowned upon by the most traditional wizards. Of course, uncle Cygnus could sound a little...rough, but Regulus never heard of any occasion where he might have significantly hurt them physically (not beside the occasional arm-grab, a habit seemingly gone last easter, when Grandfather Pollux got very upset after a teary-eyed Narcissa, the granddaughter whom he clearly favoured, showed him red finger marks after a scold); all he seemed to do was to verbally reprimand and revoke privileges, which was nothing out of the ordinary from a parent educating their offspring. While he could be strict, the girls were provided with anything they could want, and got the final choice in important matters. Yet, out of all possibilities before her, she chose to marry a no-name muggleborn that wouldn’t be able to offer the life she was used to, and open the doors that only being born into the right family would. There was no logic in her choice, but in the end, in his position, Regulus recognized being hypocritical to judge her, because he too didn’t make logical choices.

He wondered if Sirius knew.

After so many awkward interactions, it probably wouldn’t be a good idea to try to talk to him, and if Andy would bother explaining her situation to anyone among her cousins, that would be Sirius, because he too understood the meaning of being an outcast.

  
They made noises. Very low, choking sounds coming out of their half-decomposed flesh trapped in a damp, chilly tomb with the scent of death and ancient dark magic. What sort of curse, or ritual, the Dark Lord had to do to make animated corpses obey? Was there any whisper of life, of desperate consciousness in their frantic scratching, behind their empty eyes (and, sometimes, empty sockets)? Their cold, humid and wrinkled, more amphibious than human, skeletal hands were trying to catch life for its warmth, for at some level recognizing and pursuing something lost to them, condemned to spot and attempt against in an eternal loop, or as a result of pure, mechanical compulsions of the Dark Lord’s deed? 

Regulus dreamed of death so many times he was almost getting used to the feeling, and so started to pay attention to details such as these. The dead corpses held the impression of such an ominous frailty, of being at the edge of existence, looking as if they would fall apart over a simple touch; but Regulus knew better, he knew with every inch of his skin how much pain they could inflict. Screeched by nails, sharp and thin as needles, over and over and over– 

He felt a pressure on his shoulder, a touch pulsing with life, distinctly warm compared to inferi’s hands.  
“Reg? Wake up, sleeping beauty, you’re ten minutes away from missing Charms.”

The possibility of missing classes was enough to put him out of the cave and practically jump off of his bed.

Regulus felt as if he didn’t sleep at all; his eyelids felt heavy, even though he went to sleep two hours earlier than his customary hour, “Barty? What are you doing in my room?”

“Sorry to disappoint, rich kid, but this is a shared dorm and any housemate can enter, you know?”

Regulus glared while standing up to pick his uniform. “You know what I meant. And you’re rich too.”

“I just wanted to check if you were alright. You didn’t show up for breakfast.”

“Oh, well, clearly I overslept. And _clearly_ ,” and he added with extra bitterness, “My roommates were just too busy to wake me up.”

He headed to the washroom, Barty sat on his bed, unbothered about his own lateness.

Getting ready in record time, and pointedly ignoring the enormous dark circles under his eyes he opened the door, ready to pick his bag and walk as fast as possible, but his friend – because after more than a year considering Barty an acquaintance, he realized that besides Sirius and Kreacher, he was the closest person to him, and he even gave up and let Barty call him “Reg” – stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Barty, would you please let me go? We have classes to attend, you know, and we can’t afford to lose more house points or Ravenclaw might get a chance at winning the House Cup this year.”

“Are you alright?” Barty asked, concern implied in his tone.

“I am. Now, can we please go?” He urged.

“Want to go somewhere fun?”

“ _Barty_.”

“Alright, no skipping classes today.”

Sometimes, he felt a small urge to share his secrets with Barty; he was brilliant, and would definitely be useful in Regulus's research to confirm what he saw in his dreams and try to further his knowledge on the subject, and even as a partner to practice Occlumency. Aside from spending hours in the library reading about the magic involving Occlumency and it’s counterpart, Legilimency, and how to train the mind to raise solid mental shields, his evolution on the subject was limited due to the terrifying possibilities over someone trying to invade his thoughts. He knew there was a high risk of his most guarded secrets being revealed, and no one could understand what he shared with Sirius. In the best possibility, Barty would stop talking to him, maybe call him a freak or a similar offense, but in the worst scenario, Sirius would end up in prison. So, practicing Occlumency with a partner was out of the cards.

Besides, he wasn’t sure how Barty would react upon being presented to the idea of a Horcrux. His friend could, sometimes, be a bit imprevisible, and just as Regulus, he too was getting close to Rosier, Mulciber, even Snape, who sneered at Regulus almost every time they crossed paths. Rude, but not unexpected, and aside from that, he never said anything disrespectful.

The fact that Sirius and he were reserved in their interactions, not spending too much time together under the other student’s eyes when they were in good terms turned out to be an advantage. Beside some provocations here and there from interacting with someone his housemates acknowledged as a blood traitor, they seemed to believe in his faith to the cause.

It was on a beautiful spring day that he was to be marked.

The burgeoning, colorful life in Mother’s garden made a beautiful view for an afternoon tea, glimpses of nature and magic at it’s finest, unbearably light for his state of mind, submerged in the dreadfulness of the events to happen at dusk at the Lestrange manor. His darjeeling was too hot on his tongue, but he kept drinking it as if nothing was bothering him, kept glancing at the reserved area for Mother’s beloved white roses as if it wasn’t the stage of one of his most cherished memories, as if it didn’t make his chest ache at the remembrance of a time were he had something good to wake up to and his head urged him to fall in the compulsion to run to his room and drown himself in calming draught, from his stash of special vials he paid extra to be stronger, the blue glinting as liquid stars taking him into a void, a state of being so peaceful he wasn’t capable of feeling anything, a relief, for there wasn’t any positive feelings to be felt for quite a while.

There was a time were he ran through those flowers with Sirius, felt soft petals caressing his fingers, as if the rest of the world was a blur beneath them, and all that mattered was resumed to simple things such as Mother and Kreacher cooing at him when he got sick, finding secret corners for playing hide and seek, and painting; when his worse problems were resumed to be ditched by his older brother or getting a scold for being caught breaking the rules. An eternal holiday for his infant, isolated soul. A place in time that he could be rooted into without a complaint.

There was also another time, much closer, where he would discover a multitude of problems and would bury his face in Sirius’s chest, and the mere fact that he could feel his pulse, that his brother was within his reach would be enough.

For a moment, he pretended that he could ignore his responsibilities, the darkness from his prophetic dreams, and that his family’s safety wasn't reliant on his death. Because to survive would be to turn himself and them into walking targets; surely the Dark Lord would seek vengeance upon a servant thieving a piece of his soul. Vengeance that would be pointless, if he was dead.

Plotting to thieve a rising dark wizard’s soul and dedicating himself to be top of his class. What a life.

As much as the idea of resorting to his vials was appealing, getting away wouldn’t solve his sorrows, and Bella, finally married into the Lestrange family and eager to present him for the ceremony, would definitely disapprove of his manners if he ignored a meeting.

As the reddened sun began disappearing slowly in the horizon line he went inside the house and began to prepare himself.

Far too fast, the hour came, and he faced the Lestrange manor entrance with all the pride he was raised to display in his face and in his steps, all the resolution of someone carrying a vital piece to a complicated puzzle. There was a strange pull in the back of his neck, but he ignored it.

He walked to his fate, and later tossed empty vials carelessly on his bedroom floor, left arm burning and fingertips yearning to the feel of his quill and writing to call Sirius back to him.

_My beloved Sirius,_   
_When I enter your dusty room, I nearly fall to my knees for the lack of your light inside,_   
_I embrace the overwhelming mist of you absence as I should, but I hate it, I hate it, so please–_

But that would be imprudent, so he waited for the urge to pass, for the potion to travel in him and bring calmness, the bright emptiness that lowered the rhythm of his thumping heart.

Father, who had been away on business in Germany, frowned upon Mother’s commentary of Regulus’s visit to Bellatrix the following morning. 

  
Back to Hogwarts, Barty kept asking about the meeting he couldn’t attend, stating his father was unexpectedly at home and he couldn’t risk getting caught in an escape or a lie. 

Tired of always hiding and highly doubtful of Rosier’s discretion capabilities among their group, being the only one from school to testify his marking, Regulus decided to tell the truth. So, he walked to an empty bathroom with his friend, checking the place and casting privacy charms.

“It happened, Barty.” He revealed, face carefully neutral.

“Oh,” Barty exclaimed with stars in his eyes, will you let me see?”

Regulus lifted his sleeve, revealing his red skin and the ominous draw of the mark.

Barty looked in awe, much more impressed than Regulus could ever be.

“Does it hurt?”

“Not at the moment, but when it was being put on my arm it felt like being stabbed, as if it was being carved with a dagger instead of casted with a wand. Afterwards it hurt too, but now the pain is almost all gone.”

If his description affected Barty, he didn’t show; the same impressed expression plastered on his face.

“May I– may I touch it?”

Now that made him feel a bit uncomfortable; the mark felt too personal for it, but he extended his arm in Barty’s direction regardless.

As soon as fingertips reached the skull on his arm, the black drawing of the snake, as if becoming alive, began moving, and it felt as if Regulus actually had something moving under his skin, instead of just the draw of the figure.

It made his face heated with shame; he couldn’t imagine Sirius, or Father, or any Black submitting to being marked, to bow to someone other than the head of the family, Bellatrix being a notable exception. While they might agree to various degrees with his ideals, the Death Eaters were practically vassals of the self-titled lord, something most in his family would find beneath their worth.

Perhaps Mother would be content if she saw the mark, thinking of it as a signal of his commitment to pureblood traditions, but Father would certainly consider it unbecoming of a Black heir. Sirius would probably be disgusted and hex him without a second thought. He was quick to judge, and quick with his wand.

“You know, Reg, since you were so close to that blood traitor, I was thinking you might have had second thoughts about joining, but now I see your commitment.”

Regulus scoffed, as if they weren't much closer than Barty could know, “Sirius and I weren’t close. He happened to be my brother, you know, and the heir of my house. Of course I had to interact with him.”

“That’s not quite the impression I had, but if you say so.” Barty shrugged. “Anyway, I wish I had a family like yours, and someone to vouch for me like your cousin did. It seems like you’re the youngest one to join the ranks, and I’ll only be allowed in after graduation.”

“Honestly, you’re not missing much; as an underaged student, there are many limitations to what they could task me. And being the only one within Hogwarts grounds leaves me in a vulnerable position. One can never fully trust a bunch of students to keep their mouths shut. Rosier was there, which means by now more people probably know.” 

Evan Rosier held a cruel charisma around him and an intense necessity to be the center of attention, which was no difficult task with his talent with words and his looks: light hair and blue eyes – the same colours of aunt Druella’s – and a strong jaw, the only slightly unfavorable trait was his aquiline nose, but the curve of it’s bridge was not prominent enough to disharmony much with his features; with easy subtlety he derided and reprimanded, and yet, many gravitated towards him in the corridors, in the common room, listening attentively to his words as the epitome of wiseness. He reminded Regulus of Sirius in many ways, with three exceptions: the first one being that Sirius only directed his venom to the ones he deemed “bad”, in his dramatic, light-or-dark view of society. With Sirius, there was no such thing as penumbra in the word, no gradient colors. Rosier, in that sense, was much more of a relativist, always putting things in different perspectives and taking into account the practical aspects of life that might intervene with one’s actions. And holding no mockeries back, no one was beyond the mistreats of his sharp tongue. The second one was that he held no respect for secrets whatsoever, an odd trait for a Slitheryn, and whenever something important happened, a detailed tale was rolling out of his tongue soon enough – at least among their lot, resembling a bored madame having not much to do besides gossiping with other equally bored madames. Regulus would know, he testified a lot of those upon Mother's luncheons and afternoon teas with aunt Lucretia and other high-society ladies back when he was deemed too little and frail for Mother to trust him to the care of governesses. 

_“Never trust important matters to the care of servants, Regulus Arcturus, not unsupervised. They are never unfailingly competent and ought to disappoint; if you must have something well executed, you mustn't trust it to your lessers.”_

The third one was the nature of his charisma; where Sirius was wildness and unpredictability – with a dash of madness, Rosier was a perfect product of his upbringing: perfectly aristocratic in his manners, always composed and proper – even when he spoke in slurs and vulgarity, the air of noble upbringing never let him.

Barty, Regulus realized, was starting to sound a little too much like Bellatrix, just a little too devoted in his praises and fervorous speeches defending the cause. The glint in his hazel eyes denouncing an almost childlike admiration.

“Still, I’m looking forward to the honour.”

To think all Barty might have needed, judging by his heartfelt confessions near the lake on or empty alleyways on Hogsmeade weekends, was a figure to look up to, to admire, a position his father, a respectable ministry official could easily fill but was failing.

  
Sometimes, he found himself wandering about where he could spot Sirius, almost always in company of his cronies, especially Potter, though he lessened his time with Sirius when, somehow, he managed to start dating the mudblood girl Evans, who Regulus frankly thought to be intelligent enough to keep her distance. Not so smart, it turned out, if she fell for the tale of Potter’s redemption to good boy – something all Grifindors seemed to have fallen for – but Regulus knew better, for being at the receiving end of his hateful gaze in prefect reunions, and his wand at some rare and well-picked occasions. Not that Regulus makes it easy, Potter faced some special tricks learned in afternoons spent at Grimmauld’s library.

The only thing that changed about James Potter was his ability to conceal his thoughts – an ability any pureblood wizard should grow up dominating – and better picking his timing.

Always lingering towards the limits, far enough to diminish the likelihood of Sirius spotting him or someone else notice what he was doing; close enough to notice how happy he seemed. Those were the last months he could see his smiles before Sirius graduated.   
Possibly, those were the last times he would ever get to see him. Fate ripped them apart, and he didn’t even know if Sirius would stay with the Potters after he graduated, or if he would be able to afford his own place.

  
The answer came many months later, at the beginning of next term, in the careless calligraphy of uncle Alphard, who left a generous amount of gold for Sirius in his will. 

His death had been a surprise, an accident involving the venom of a wild creature at a place called Camboja, damaging enough that even a week of intense care at St. Mungos couldn’t fix. A close friend organized his belongings according to his wishes. A ministry official was solemnly reading his will at the drawing room of Grimmauld Place, in the presence of most family members, some impassive as always, as if there wasn’t much of a difference between an important dinner and a family’s member death; a few ladies – namely Narcissa, great-aunt Cassiopeia and, of course, grandmother Irma, inconsolable over the loss of a son– drying their tears delicately with handkerchiefs.

For Regulus, he left most of his impressive collection of books and artifacts he acquired in his constant travels through his life, full of adventures and entertaining stories.

Some of the stories, he remembered, were the cause of some bickering between Mother and his uncle, because “ _Regulus_ _is_ _too_ _young_ _and_ _shall_ _be spared_ _from_ _your_ _tales_ _of_ _inadequacy_ _and_ _immorality_.”

He would miss the excitement when Sirius and him sat by the fireplace to hear the stories, accompanied by wine – back when no other adult but uncle Alphard let Regulus have a tiny bit from his glass.

For Mother, as a post-mortem sibling tease, a box containing vials of an ancient chinese potion – according to the note inside, on the brief time Regulus had to read before Mother turned her back to him to exchange ultraged gazes with Father, was a back from the bronze-age unaltered recipe – of _calming_ _draught_ , to which aunt Lucretia apparently had knowledge of, for she scoffed, only to receive Mother’s deadly stare.

Curiosity at its peak, he managed another brief look.

_A recipe from the dawn of civilization to match your legendary temper, Burgie,_

And that was the most Regulus could read from the parchment on Mother’s trembling hand before it turned to ashes.

There was another box, this one with rare and exotic potions ingredients that she, as a talented potioneer, would make good use of, but the dedication put into the gift wasn’t enough to placate the white-hot intensity of her temper, for the insult and for the heritance to the runaway son. 

Grandfather Pollux took offense of her rage.

“It was hardly Alphard’s concern, your incompetence at managing my grandson’s education. Besides, put yourself in your place, woman, you are disgracing your ancestor’s name by having a hysteric attack in the presence of nearly all members of our noble house, and on the occasion of the reading of the will of your deceased brother, nonetheless! You’ll do well to maintain some decency from now on and remain in silence.”

There was a dangerous moisture pooling in her eyes that prompted Regulus to move from his spot and reach her, but her glare, far worse than the one directed at Lucretia, a glare that displayed true resentment, made him hesitant. Mother was one insult away from hexing her own father, Regulus was sure. 

It was Father who reached her first; he put a comforting hand on her shoulder before turning to Regulus and asking him to take her to a calmer place.

Upon her protest, he got closer to her ear before speaking, but Regulus was too close not to hear.

“Go, Walburga, let me solve this situation and soon I’ll find you.”

Regulus led her to a sitting room where he held her hand in silence, trying to avoid looking at the tense lines of her face not to stress her even further.  
Upon his return to the drawing room, after Father sent him back, he noticed grandfather Pollux was absent. No one commented on the previous events.

  


After the funeral, animosities among family members subdued, and the rest of the term went smoothly – or as smoothly as possible, considering the unpleasable context he was living in.

Mother burned uncle Alphard from the tree, too, and Regulus found himself being less and less impacted with such subsequent downfalls. 

So, he drowned himself in research of Horcruxes, but the subject was deep in obscurity and the references to its nature were rare gemstones in a sea of useless information, and mostly lacking in furthering the information given.

  
By his last year – with Barty having sadly graduating and leaving him alone with those dunderheads – his housemates were giving great importance to another matter besides following his path: the opposite sex.

Not that snogging and (many times a painfully obvious lie) going further wasn’t discussed before as a matter of utmost importance, but for the most part, they didn’t pay much attention to Regulus’s complete absence of sordid stories. But together with his last growth spurt last summer, came a noticeable growth in attention he was receiving. Not that he didn’t get much of that before; girls giggling in groups and staring at him was a constant in the corridors – unfailingly making him flush in embarrassment, a reaction that only ever worsened all the hushed tones and the gigglings – as well as invitations to Hogsmeade. And now, for some reason, said housemates kept wondering why he never dated any of the _eager_ _birds_ ( _how_ _unchivalrous_ _of_ _them!_ ) that, according to them, practically _threw_ _themselves_ _at_ _him_. 

As a way to diminish their constant, annoying questions, or at least change the focus of his complete lack of dating habits, upon the invitation for company in the upcoming Hogsmeade weekend of the next person, Eugenia Nott, he accepted.

And just as easily as his acceptance, came his regret.

Miss Nott wasn't an unpleasant company – she was sufficiently pretty, rather intelligent, and shared mutual interest in ancient Greek runes with Regulus – however, the trio of friends following both of them, her friends, was making him feel very uncomfortable.

As they settled in a table at Madam Puddifoot’s, and while he sipped white tea, the doorbell rang and announced what was about to become a tiring day.

Eugenia too seemed bothered, and after a long stare at the not-so-subtle girls tree tables away from them,by her glare and tense hands holding the delicate porcelain cup, she seemed ready to act, but Regulus decided to intervene before a possible fissure at their friendship was created over something meaningless – because he had no intentions of dragging things further on a second date.

“Would you like to go for a walk? It’s a bit crowded here, and I see your tea is finished.”

“Of course, could we go see the shrieking shack? I know it's haunting is most likely just a rumour, but the path is pleasant enough for a walk, and since it’s an open space it feels much less crowded than these narrow streets.”

Judging by the faint blush on her cheeks, her intentions probably leaned towards the other reputation of what students did around the place, among the trees that made for a more discrete scenario than the crowded streets from the village– just like suggesting Madam Puddifoot instead of the pub, or somewhere else less...couple-focused.

Autumn leaves creaked under his polished shoes as they headed through a relatively empty path, the chill air making him regret not having picked a thicker coat. 

After observing the shrieking shack with crescent boredom – how he longed for a good book and the comfortable armchairs at the common room – he spotted a bench in a more reserved area. 

Regulus gestured for her to take a seat first, and just as he sat down, he spotted a pair of eyes on him.

As he stared back at oddly familiar grey orbs, the big, black creature hid partially behind a large tree, never ceasing it’s intense stare.

Regulus knew well what he was looking at, having seen figures of grims at the books Mother used to read to him before sleep, long ago and at scarce occasions.

The grim, standing in the faint shadows casted by yellowing leaves on the trees, the first signs of Autumn, was impressive in its beauty: black and lustrous thick fur, clear grey eyes, bigger than he would expect. And possessing an unsettling light in its eyes, as if it carried more intelligence, a distinctive kind of awareness than an animal normally would.

Well, in a certain way, it did make sense, since grims were known as messengers from death, and as magical creatures they would probably possess intelligence beyond a common dog or another similar animal would.

But those eyes, those eyes were holding a meaning he couldn't quite catch; they ignited in him a familiar pain, and a sense of nostalgia bothering but not unwelcome.

“Oh look! Isn't that Ida Yaxley from your year with that mudblood Taylor by the end of the fence?”

Regulus couldn’t care less of whom Yaxley snogged, but keeping appearances was important.

“Indeed. Seems like some of us haven't quite grasped the importance our names carry and are eager to mix up.”

With the growing polarization spreading around the houses, it was certainly a miscalculation on Yaxley's part to be spotted consorting with the opposite side. After all, her housemates could brand her as a blood traitor and make her life difficult within Hogwarts grounds. Outside, it was another story, as she belonged to a family aligned with the dark lord's ideals – aligned enough to put shiny coins in the cause – and she would probably be at a safe position regardless of what side wins the upcoming war, unless, of course, if she was marked or caught contributing directly to the loser side.

His eyes wandered back to the trees, and surprisingly, the grim was at the same place, staring back, only this time distinctively more aggressive, glowering its eyes and baring white, sharp teeth.

For a moment, he worried the creature would attack him, but unmoving for a while, the sharp teeth were once again hidden from view, although the eyes remained angry.

Then, unsurprisingly, Eugenia interrupted his observation once again, only this time with a more physical approach, in the form of a gloved hand on his knee. And in an even bolder movement, she turned to him and, as simply as that, planted her glossed lips on his.

It was all wrong; nothing like the kisses he shared with Sirius. 

It was the dryness of Sirius’s lips, the ends of his dark waves tickling his neck and the strong hold around him that Regulus craved. The descending of lips along his neck, the bites, and the final pecks. This kiss tasted like the cherry gloss she was wearing, smelled like her fresh, light floral perfume and didn’t hold a fraction of the intensity, of the odd mixture of aggression and sweetness he was used to – he never kissed any lips but Sirius’s up until this point, and found he much preferred the secret ones shared late at night in any of their bedrooms or at dark alcoves at school, holding the lingering feeling of danger, the sense of urgency.  
It’s been so long, but he couldn’t let go.

He held her closer, though she could never be close enough, and deepened the kiss, never getting rid of the sense of wrongness, until she finally cutted it for breath, and he looked around finding, with mild disappointment, that the grim was gone.

Somehow, the black creature spiked some curiosity in him, the sense that there was something about it that he ought to decipher.

An omen of death, how fitting.

But he need no omen, for he already knew; the icy chill of death was coming to coil all around and leaving him no choice but to let himself be embraced until all the struggle, all the instincts kicking in submit to the prolonged lack of air in his burning lungs, and then sleep comes and all the unbearable agony becomes a fading buzz along with a name in the back of his mind, and just like that, everything stops, just like in the dreams that haunted his rest.

Sometimes, he found he actually wanted for it to happen so all could be just over. So he could find some form of peace for having fulfilled his duty, even if trapped in that dreadful place. At least he would get rid of his thoughts, wake up from this torment, as lately his days were soft transitions between infinite ennui to the lingering terror haunting his sleep. He both held fear and anxious anticipation for his last day alive. 

His torments would drown in the blackness of an August day.

  
The weekend after he finally graduated, he was summoned to a meeting – a very loose idea of a meeting, in truth, as it mostly consisted of recently marked wizards and copious amounts of alcohol and a belligerent Bellatrix demanding of him a cruelty he thought to be lacking of, as she forced her hand in teaching him the cruciatus curse, with a terrorized and clueless mugle as training target. 

He will never forget the shriver running his spine at his last attempt – successful, after previous failures and a provocation on her part – and the fading hope in the muggle man’s eyes, taken by pained resignation. The muggle cried and prayed with the hoarse voice of someone who spent a good time suffering, and his faith and lack of focus on the present situation seemed to have enraged her further. Regulus felt repulse for the violence, but he also felt _powerful_ when the red light came out of his wand, a foreign sensation, and he almost could understand the reason behind Bellatrix inebriating herself with it, becoming, each time they meet, a bit less of the (mostly) composed lady he knew, casually cruel, yes, but majorly able to behave herself, and submerging a tad deeper into her distinct violent wildness, frightening as the unpredictable grandeur of the raging tempest outside, lightning crossing the skies above invading the room through the windows of Malfoy manor and accentuating the intensity of her mad contentment and the man’s pure fear. 

  
August, anticipated with fear and resignation, came and brought with it’s warm-coloured leaves his last endeavour, and with solemnity, he volunteered an oddly disturbed Kreacher to the cave. While he thought best to avoid revealing anything to the elf and risking changing the course of fate, he could sense how anxious and nervous his old friend was. Perhaps, it was due to knowing that he would be performing a task for a distinctively cruel figure, and yet, Regulus couldn’t avoid the unsettling sensation that something was off.

He had, of course, done previous research about how to milden the effects of the poisonous potion Kreacher was going to drink, and prepared a little kit that unfortunately, would do much beyond slightly alleviate the symptoms and cause the potion to get out of his system faster.

The replica was hidden in a compartment inside hs wardrobe, but he decided to wait for a few days until Kreacher recovered, and himself time to ponder if he should write letters to his parents, something vague just to amenize the shock of him disappearing and a new date added under his name on the family tapestry. He thought about writing to Sirius, too, in fact, he made several attempts to write for him, but perhaps it would be best to leave him undisturbed, blissfully away, as much as Regulus detested the idea of being forgotten by Sirius, of becoming a distant memory.

Writing for his loved ones, at that point, was too hard for his weak, coward self, and all attempts ended up in stained parchment from tears and ink, and his normally perfect calligraphy from years of training, poor shaken attempts of bringing himself to bring some comfort for them, and words like _sorry_ and _love_ that unfailingly were the points were he messed things up and picked his handkerchief with shame. 

How many times does one need to write _I’m sorry_ , and _I_ _love_ _you_ until those words lose enough of their force that eyelashes and parchment finally remain dry?

The note to be guarded inside the locket, though, was written with all the solemnity and diligence of a fervidly religious man servicing his temple, and once again found was the courage that he lacked in his previous attempts. 

He wondered if his brother remembered his promise from long ago; if it still meant something at this point.

Regulus nurtures so many fears, but perhaps the biggest one was being forgotten, and becomes nothing more but a faint figure of someone’s memory, with everything about what he loved, what he cherished, what he hated erased by time.

But it wouldn’t matter after he maunders between life and death and no longer has the luxury of abstract fears.

With a soft pop sound, Kreacher appeared in his room. 

He was the picture of anguish; the long, pointy ears lowered in dejection, franctic mumblings of _why_ _would_ _Master_ _Regulus_ _sent_ _Kreacher_ _for_ _death_ , _Kreacher_ _is_ _no_ _longer_ _fit_ _to_ _serve_ _the_ _Noble_ _House_ _of_ _Black_ , _Mistress_ _will_ _gift_ _Kreacher_ _with_ _clothes_ , _Kreacher_ _knows_ , _Kreacher_ _will_ _iron_ _his_ _hands_ _a_ _thousand_ _times_ , among more delirious nonsense. The perturbed eyes, Regulus would never forget.

How much crueler can he become?

He picked some blankets and put them at bedside, as Kreacher would surely fret if he placed him on the bed, quickly ordering him to drink from the vials Regulus had in hands.

He glanced at a clock. Hopefully, Mother would only summon Kreacher by the time began preparing dinner, which gave them roughly three hours.

He took a deep breath, and waited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed the chapter! =)  
> English is not my native language, so if you find any grammar mistake or awkward phrasing, feel free to tell me.  
> Constructive criticism is appreciated.


	3. Beyond the Ghost of Future

It took three days until Kreacher’s full recovery, the diminishing symptoms passing thankfully unnoticed as his parents would probably brush the elf’s attempts at ironing his fingers and beating himself mercilessly against any hard surface as just his usual self punishments for trivial mistakes, and Regulus decided to finally take action. Once again, the nervous sign in the form of a pull at the back of his neck surged. But he wouldn’t back away.

With the locket safely put inside his pocket, he gave a teary-eyed Kreacher his orders.

The elf took his hand so they could Apparate, but Regulus didn’t feel the usual pull, only heard the sound, and with surprise, he found himself still in his room, alone.

Kreacher was back within seconds, apologetic.

Odd. Did Father, in his crescent paranoia with the house security, restricted even more the anti-apparition ward and forgot to inform him?

Slowly opening his door, he noticed the hallway was empty, and ventured out, wanting to go outside, out of the wards domain, unnoticed. With feline discretion, he managed a nearly soundless trip to the entrance door. As attempted to step outside, his foot met an invisible barrier. 

What was happening? Had Father gone mad?

Another attempt, another failure.

Irrationally, he put his hands on the barrier and as if to push it – and the only visual clue he had of the magic was a soft light at the edges of his hand that lasted a blink before fading. Once again, he asked Kreacher to try apparate them both, unsuccessfully, as expected. With a crescent thumping at his chest, the realization that he was locked began hit him, with an exception still to test: the floo conections.

A finite incantatem would obviously not work for the wards. If the floo doesn't work, he would have to head to sneak in Father's sutdy and search for his notes to– 

Just then, he crossed gazes with Kreacher, who stood beside him. _Guilt._

_Hiding something._

“Planning on heading somewhere, son?”

The grave sound of his Father’s voice startled him, causing him to nearly drop his wand but managed to grab it.

“Oh, Father, yes, I actually was wondering why–”

“So was I. Wondering, I mean. Do you happen to guess just about what would it be, Regulus?”

With the grouwing feeling that something wrong was happening, Regulus shook his head even if it was clear it was a rhetorical question, feeling as small and powerless as he was as a child.

“– I was pondering about what point I have failed in my duties to this family. I must have committed a grave mistake, perhaps several, since my own son holds no trust on me, as I was firstly informed by third parties that my heir had predicted his own _death_ ," he practically hissed the word, as if the idea itself was insulting, "And for unknown reasons haven’t found wise to confide this critical information to his own father, and furthermore, lowering myself to conspire with a domestic elf, to _insist and bargain_ with it to gather more information, only to come to the startling realization that my son, whom I prevously thought to be considerate and rational, is idiotic enough to put himself at the position of a marthyr, and planning on letting his parents blind of his intentions.”

“Father, I’m–”

Orion raised a hand to refrain him for speaking and continued his reproach.

“Egoistic, ignorant boy, have your mother’s feelings crossed your self-centered mind? You would break her heart with your reckless deed. Must you be inconsiderate enough to not give a shred of value to those who fed, sheltered, educated you with our best resources? Most importantly– do you give so little value to your own life?” 

“But if you know, Father, surely–”

“Quiet, boy, for I am not finished. If I may hear your pathetic excuses, they shall be postponed,” he hissed. “Seeing as you shan’t be given any shred of trust not to run in direction of suicide, I ought to take the matter of your security entirely by my own hands. Go to your room and pack your trunk. You shan’t summon the elf– I’ll tell you, Regulus, that I am left with little patience, and that thing was one sentence away from having it’s head hanging in the hall. One word exchanged between you and I’ll consider that old, disobeying elf no longer fit to service this family. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Father.” Regulus complied. “May I ask how–”

“You may not. Just know that you can’t keep secrets for me in my own home, Regulus, not for long. I know more about you than you might assume. Now hurry, I have important business to attend before nighttime.”

Regulus sped to his room the fastest he could without actually running, mind in a frenzy about being discovered, and how he could contour the situation out of Father’s control.

He hastily had five minutes before his door was unceremoniously open, impatience clear in the wrink between his father's brows and the tense line of his mouth.

“Well?” Orion inquired, crossing his arms, a gesture that contributed to Regulus's nervousness.

“I’m almost done,” he replied, clumsily picking some coats from the hangers in his closet, barely avoiding dropping a small pile on his shoulder with his fast reflexes.

Orion raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

“Just put what you already took in your trunk, I don’t have all day.”

  
  
  
  
  
  


After a very hushed packing, his trunk was shrank with Father’s elegant wandwork, and Regulus was led to a sitting room where he saw his father picking a small bag from his coat, and only then noticed the wooden box over the mantel missing. Of course, all the floo powder was probably under his control.

Father spoke an address Regulus hadn't heard of before, the words sounding odd on his ears, and they travelled to the fireplace of what seemed like an empty sitting room. The room was nearly bare, with only a worn out sofa and an armoire in a corner, empt, for whar could be seen through the dusty glass display. There were heavy layers of dust over the – rather simple-looking and scarce – furniture, as well as suspended in the air, turning breathing a rather difficult task, for the smell and his sensitive nose tickling with the urgent feeling of a chain of sneezes making their way.

They walked to the door, where Father pulled his ebony wand, a heirloon passed from Lord Black to heir and casted on both a disillusionment charm, and as the relieving clear air filled Regulus’s lungs, he briefly considered running away, but both his wand and trunk were out of his possession. Besides, he wouldn’t be surprised if Father managed to cast a tracking spell on him completely unnoticed.

Wordlessly, Father locked the entrance door behind them and began to hastily walk. Regulus didn’t dare ask anything, focusing, instead, on matching the fast rhythm of Father’s long strides through a small village. As they reached the limits of the village to enter woodland – finally, the white sunshine was already taking an effect on his pale skin – he gave a last glance at the place.

It seemed an impoverished village, the houses looked small and simple. Far, he could distinguish a tower, surely a church, since he could hear the distinguished sounds of a ringing bell filling the otherwise quiet place. There were two women speaking to each other, one appearing to be middle-aged, and the other, considerably older standing not far from them. The older lady had a hunched back and was having visible difficulties in standing with the help of a cane. The younger lady seemed nervous, and was raising her voice – Merlin, should he attempt to raise his voice at any of the elder members of his family, Regulus would be at the receiving end of a painful hex, or Arcturus’s merciless cane – but surprisingly, the older one was rolling her eyes and displaying a mocking smile, clearly not taking the display of disrespect seriously. Their dresses looked different from the ones he’s used to. Both in white and a vibrant shade of red at the skirt, as well as a light-colored pattern of flourish embroidery he never came across – unless he counted great aunt Cassiopeia’s cushions. The older one had her hair covered by a scarf, and the younger carried over her head an adorn with some embroidery and what seemed to be real flowers, which could be a vague clue of where they were.

Father didn’t relent on his fast walking, and they crossed a very small area of forest before reaching a moor.

After a while, Regulus could feel the muscles of his legs burning – the most of physical activity he practised was following snitches and avoiding bludgers from over a broom, therefore, nothing that included particular effort on his legs, as he skillfully avoided for years the pointless exercises of running around the pitch that the Quidditch team captains of his house seemed to be so found of. Maneuvering a broom was, after all, mostly an upper body effort, and there was no reason to waste time and sweat running in circles like some muggleborns did in the mornings around campus.

But before he could risk Father’s sharp temper upon asking him to slow down, Regulus finally saw what was possibly their destiny: a two-story house that seemed to appear out of thin air. They probably crossed a ward, most likely casted by Father, since it was one of the areas of his best domain in magic, and he managed to set wards at Grimmauld that no one welcomed into the place seemed to sense. 

They entered the place, much less opulent than Grimmauld Place, but seemingly comfortable and spaceous enough, and after leaving his trunk in a bedroom upstairs, Father asked – commanded – Regulus to sit, before having a long conversation about what Sirius revealed in his study before leaving, about how his brother asked Father to promise to assure Regulus’s safety.

He revealed forcing a very reluctant Kreacher to reveal about the cave, and casting wards so Regulus couldn't leave the house except through the floo – heavily monitored – and took several security measures on this house, where Regulus couldn’t apparate and all floo connections were closed.

_The pull at the back of his neck wasn't after all, a physical sympton of his state of_ mind.

“And if you dare cross the wards, I’ll feel in my magic, and I’ll drag you back here and limit your space to inside the house. In case you haven’t noticed, you carry a tracking spell, one I myself designed. Don’t force me to modify the wards against you. Now, give me the replica you’re hiding in your pocket. I’ll bring the matter of this secret to someone that might be useful in aiding you unscathed, should the Dark Lord lose the war.”

Regulus had an internal war at his mind, pondering his chances of an escape whithin Orion Black's domain, but ended up placing the replica hesitantly on a waiting hand. While he knew his intended fall was now not a secret from Father, he still didn't want him to read the note inside. Blatant acts of heroism weren't excactly appreciated in his family, and the fact that he mentioned facing death on his note would the cause of more anger.

“But what if he _wins_? What if he finds out about my intentions?” Regulus asked in a really quiet voice.

“That, my son, will depend entirely on our capabilities of keeping you hidden. I’m assuming your dark mark– don’t make this face, do I pass as a fool to you?– only serve for the purpose of summoning, and not tracking or forcibly summon, am I correct?” Upon Regulus nod, Orion continued, “I’ll examine your arm later for confirmation. The safest option is to be here, away from England, seeing as you would have to be at the Dark Lord's disposal otherwise, and I’m assuming you no longer wish to play servant.”

Regulus could feel his cheeks burning.

“But what about Mother and you?”

“We’re not even supposed to know that you joined Death Eater ranks, so all we need to do is to keep our lips tight and maintain a coherent story about your disappearance. They would be foolish to try to harm a Black that is not involved in the war, as it would send the wrong message to other pureblood families that are or might be considering involving themselves by becoming patrons to his cause. In any case, within the grounds of family property, any fool who dares menace us with a wand will perish within seconds with a plethora of dark curses.”

Regulus wished he had the time to pick some vials of calming draught with him. So many things could go wrong, and now his parents were involved.

“Does Mother know?” He inquired.

“Do you think she would avert her eyes from you for a second if she did? No, but she’ll be informed tonight, so beware. Knowing her short patience, she will probably be here tomorrow morning.”

To put it in euphemistic terms, Mother wouldn’t take the news kindly.

“How did you find out about my plan? I only told Kreacher the full plan by the time I attempted to leave.”

“For now, let's settle that my talent for assuring security has multiple layers. Perhaps one day you may regain my trust to be taught on my spells. Now,” he stood up, putting a silver watch out of his pocket and frowning upon glancing at the hour. “I must go, otherwise I’ll be late to my meeting. You may hold your questions for my next visit. Here,” he put Regulus’s wand over the coffee table. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

  
  
  
  
  
  


The next days were permeated by constant fears. What if they go after Mother and Father? What if they found him? What if Bellatrix gets mad enough at his disappearance to reveal his secret, even without any gain?

What if, What if. His racing mind was restless in it's task of dwelling on diferent scenarios of how small details could make everything go wrong, praying for security only the end of the war could bring. 

At the tenth dawn in that unknown place, as Regulus got restless in his insomnia and headed for a walk outside, the what ifs became an insignificant low thrum.

Because. 

Walking with the rising sun.

Sirius.

  
  
  
  


For Sirius, the distant glamour of freedom burned off quickly upon his touch from a bright promise of renewal to the scary perspective of building a future on his own and the expected gloom of aching, with drops of contentment provided by the Marauders, mostly James, a brother in a sense that Regulus could never be. He lied, implied that Walburga’s wrath might have turned into physical violence, that their constant disagreements led him to leave, and his tongue twisted the truth with such ease. They would never have accepted him if they knew the reason he left.

But he lied, so Fleamont and Euphemia welcomed him with open arms for months before he found a place he could afford, nearly began treating him like Jame’s brother. _If only they knew._ But he could _never_ touch James with the same unrestricted need, would never sit at his bed at late hours and push him down for sinful acts instead of their usual silly conversations with a bottle of cheap firewisky at hand. _Regulus was far too snobbish for cheap alcohol and would certainly stick to vintage wine or surrender to his sweet tooth and have that weird mixture involving cognac and cocoa cream that sweetened his kisses._ He cringed from the thought of James’s chapped lips tasting of cheap booze. No, with James he felt the sense of brotherhood that should have been with Regulus. 

With James, he had a limit that followed the track of rightfulness, the line he should follow. His moral guide.

But his sinful feelings collided against him softly, continuously, worn out his willpower as the sea shaping rocks with centenary patience to its will, and he never quite left Regulus.

Padfoot, he learned, was the better choice, because even from afar, he could still smell in his brother the scent of old books, and his favourite tea, a worrying underlying of dark magic, and most importantly, the scent that was unique to Regulus.

As Padfoot, he could hear the quiet melody of his voice, for good or for bad. Could hear those full lips Sirius knew so well, uttering slurs with his Slytherin friends, so unworthy of the same mouth that once used to make beautiful confessions under candlelight. Could see the details of his face with ease, the face he traced with his fingers and his mouth so many times and had memorized better than his own.

So when Father’s owl came to him, in the night he was dining at the Potters – where Lily wold announce she was expecting, and Sirius would pretend a worried James hasn’t confessed the news the day before – he couldn't avoid to break the Black family seal and read between the lines of a meeting to collect a supposed artifact that once belonged to a oriental king and he had inherited from uncle Alphard, but only now was located.

And when he was informed how he could find Regulus, a information that Father gave surpisingly easy, the last of his resolution crumbled apart. 

Clearly, Father wasn't so keen on disinheriting him from the house and was baiting him to the snake pit. But after so much time apart, Sirius reached his limit. Even if Regulus chooses to reject him, all he needed, he lied to himself, was to see him just one more time. See that he is fine.

_If Regulus didn’t reject him, he was ready to set fire to the line of rightfulness and burn his way to the path of damnation._

No. Reglus made clear his thoughts, and Sirius had to respect his choice. Creating expectations was pointless.

“So, Father, when I’m allowed to go for a visit?”

  
  
  
  
  
  


Sirius passed the wards and his eyes were drawn like Regulus presence was a magnet. Bags under his eyes, disheveled hair, and _absolutely_ _beautiful_.

Regulus’s grey eyes, upon seeing him widened for a brief moment before becoming glassy with the menace of tears. 

How Sirius wished to coo him and dry the tears himself.

At the sultry dawn, the sky permeated by clouds glowing in warm colors, Regulus’s pallor, wrapped in a night robe, standing in the moors and surrounded by the morning mist glinted of nostalgia and something else, _more_ magical, and made him think of tormented figures in the paintings at Grandfather Arcturus’s extensive art collection, and at the chatêaus they visited in France for their art tutoring when they were children and he spilled ink at Regulus’s hair to see his tears as his small figure ran to madam Dupont, just to receive a scolding for tugging at her skirt. But he no longer possessed the cruel childish amusement in his brother’s tears, in fact, time changed them to a source of torment, and that teary-eyed, haunting figure couldn’t possibly know how deeply ran his necessity of him. He realized that once again, as if they never were apart, he was bewildered by Regulus. Will always be.

“Sirius,” Regulus nearly whispered in a temerous tone, a slight breeze of doubt permeating his smooth voice, as if he didn’t quite believe Sirius was really standing there.

Then, once again, a whisper of his name, only this time solid, as if he just began believing in his eyes.

A warm body was pressed against his in a blink of an eye, and Sirius paused his head over raven-black hair and took a deep breath.

“Is someone accompanying you?”

“No, I came on my own.”

Regulus buried his face on Sirius’s neck, warm breath against his skin as he quivered. “Why are you here?”

“What, can’t I visit my little brother anymore?” Then, the smirk on his face was gone as he stated his worry, “Father told me, in a very loose maner, that you deserted and planned to do something stupid – and don’t think you’ll get away without telling me what it is, for Orion to have panicked and locked you so far from home you must have outdone my abilities to put them on edge by far. Anyway, I came here to see if you’re alright.”

“Well, as you can see, I’m fine.”

“Please, you look far from fine.” Sirius scoffed

Regulus gave him an indignant shove.

“Oh, don’t worry, your vain little thing, even looking sick you’re still–” Sirius cutted himself from speaking upon realizing his slip.

“Am I still what, Siri?” Regulus cocked his head slightly to the side.

_Breathtaking._

“The most handsome bloke I know. After myself, of course. Now come, let's go inside the house before you catch a cold or something.”

Regulus scoffed as they began walking. “Still a narcissistic prick, I see.” 

“Oh my stars,” Sirius placed a hand on his chest in a comic act of surprise, “Am I hearing correctly? Did I hear Regulus Black, mommy’s perfect boy, permanent resident nerd of Hogwarts library, using a...bad word?”

“Why, dear brother of mine, did you make a habit of watching me at the library?”

_Touché_.

“What? No, I barely went to the library anyway, it’s just something predictable.”

Regulus hummed like he hadn’t quite believed him. As a joke, of course, but no less truthful.

“Siri?”

“Hmm?”

“Have you–" his voice dropped an octave, "have you stopped loving me?”

_If only you knew, Reggie._

“No, you’re always going to be my baby little brother. Some time apart won’t change that.”

“No, I meant beyond that way.”

“Oh. You see, I–well– ,” _what a mess,_ Sirius thought, as he took a deep breath. “No.”

“Because I haven’t, either. That day was the worse, the worse I ever felt. But I had to, and I hope, after I explain, that you find it in your heart to forgive me. I know that you left because of me.”

“No, Reg, you had every right to–”

“I was planning to steal a piece of the Dark Lord’s soul. And Bella found out about us and used me to tie another Black to his cause.”

“ _What?”_

“Let’s hurry up. I’ll make us some tea and explain everything. Father ruined my plan anyway, so there’s no point in hiding it from you.”

  
  
  
  
  


All that he tried to suppress has scratched its way out of his chest, and turned his doubts into nothingness. His fortress was made of sand, only appearances, and easily became undone, as the castles he used to build at the beach as a child, to be destroyed by soft waves when the tides came in. Regulus always complained when Sirius insisted about building near the water line, but he liked to see destruction as the water melted the forms of the sand. 

Sandcastles weren’t meant to last anyway. Neither his resolution.

“I’m pissed at you, do you know that?” He placed his glass at the table, observing as Regulus started to cast light on the lamps. Father banished house elves as part of Regulus punishment, but Sirius found he could cook quite well, for some reason. Probably related to his gift on potion making. “Must you make a mission of keeping everything to yourself? The whole Bellatrix thing, I deserved to know, as I was part of the story. And the– the cave. Are you crazy? Secretly eager to die under the disguise of accomplishing something? For a moment I had thought Father had finally lost his head after so many years standing Mother and was keeping you in captivity. Well, technically he is, but he’s the sensible one in this mess. Merlin, who would expect you to be so reckless. If I could, I wouldn’t take my eyes out of you for a second.”

“Then don’t,” Regulus standed up from his place across the table to walk to him. “Don’t avert your eyes, as you wish.” He kneeled before Sirius and took his hands before pleading. “Don’t go away.”

Sirius squeezed the smaller hands on his. 

“I can’t. I have...business to attend. But I have a few days before having to part.”

“Oh, something related to the Order of the Phoenix, I imagine.”

“Yes, uh, how–”

“Please don’t insult my intelligence. You are as predictable as the rain on a cloudy day. It is obvious that you and your friends would jump in at the opportunity of getting involved in the war and potentially killed, and while the identities of the members are, mostly, anonymous, the existence of the organization is not. Anyway, Dumbledore was informed about the localization of the Horcrux. That’s extremely valuable intelligence, so you might as well consider your contributions done by association and stay with me.”

“Reg, I can’t–”

“I know, I know. Just do your best to not get killed, please. Don’t do anything reckless, I need to know you’re alive. Otherwise I’ll run away and do something bold just to piss you off.”

“Your little shit, come here,” he said as he gently pushed Regulus upwards to sit on his lap and gave him the kiss he longed for so long, unrushed, for they now had all the time in the word.

“Bet you didn’t see this coming,” Sirius broke the kiss and murmured against soft lips.

“Please. I could see this happening from the second I spotted you outside,” a peck on his mouth. “Terribly predictable.” Regulus moved down and sucked his neck. “So, when are we resuming that conversation from that last night? Another day, you said. Today is another day.” 

“What?” Sirius nearly choked. He could never forget how hard it was to deny Regulus.

“I was born corrupted, you know. In such a dark family, it’s unavoidable. You haven’t tarnished me, or whatever nonsense you might have been thinking to blame yourself. I was never a pure, sinless angel that must be hidden from evil. I’m not good or bad. One of my first dreams after my sight began taking place was about kissing you, and I remembered I couldn’t take it out of my head, before you did anything, at some level I was already yours by my own will. If you insist on thinking on what we feel as wrong, you might as well give me my share of the guilt, and let me join you in carrying the burden. I just want to be with you. So please, if you want me, know that I’ve been ready for a long time.”

Regulus stood up and took the dishes to the sink. “Besides, I dreamt about it. Well, some faint glimpses, honestly, but their meaning was clear, fate pictured us. Stop quivering from what you want, Sirius. And here I draw the line. My pride can’t take me begging for you any longer. Good night, Sirius. My room is upstairs, second door to your left.” Without turning back, regulus went upstairs, Sirius’s gaze following his figure until he disappeared from view.

  
  
  
  
  
  


“Stop smirking, idiot.”

“I knew it.” Regulus left his bed to walk to the door, where Sirius stood and put his arms around him in a loose hug, and turned his chin up to look into his eyes with a thriving expression on his face. “You can’t resist me,” he provoked with a lilting tone.

Sirius pulled him closer for an urgent kiss, biting lightly Regulus’s lower lip. “I can’t,” and with some effort, he pulled Regulus’s legs up around his waist so he could carry him to the bed, where he placed him gently before climbing up.

Despite casting a shadow over Regulus’s lithe body, even through his darkened form, Sirius could see the lingering fear in tense muscles and in his eyes, so he planted a chaste kiss on his forehead and whispered reassuring words in his ear, ignoring the dark mark on his left arm, the mark of another man.

Preparation took as long as Sirius’s limited patience could hold, as if he regressed to a clueless virgin, just when whatever experience he had fathom from his sparse wanderings into bars to find someone to spend the night with was actually important, but as soon as he finally pressed the tip and rolled his hips forward, Regulus’s eyes were lidded and filled with the shine of unshredded tears, that, along with a pained little moan was enough to know that he probably should wait longer.

Sirius began pulling out. “I’m sorry, I’ll–”

“No, don’t. Just give me some time.”

“Alright,” he breathed, “just...try to relax,” and he kissed Regulus once again, this time on the contour of his jaw.

Sirius could feel the smaller body under him relaxing; the muscles on his arms stopped contracting incessantly under his palm, and Regulus’s face began assuming a less pained expression.

“I’m alright now, you can go on.”

Slowly, Sirius slided in until the root, fighting against the compulsion on his hips to just thrust in and out without control. “God, Reg, you feel so good,” he said, voice dripping with desire.

It felt surreal; the tightness and warmth around him, the fact that he was taking _Regulus,_ not some stranger picked to make him feel less lonely. The overwhelming realization that now, they were tied forever, that Regulus was truly _his_.

Sirius began moving, hand closing around the cock before him, providing a distraction until he got used to the feeling.

“Please, more,” his Regulus panted.

“More what? Tell me what you want,” he demanded.

“Faster,” he grabbed the sheets, “I want you to take me faster. Please”

Sirius placed a hand on the poster of the bed for support and complied, thrusting forward with less care and more need, earning a couple of breathless sounds. The bed was creaking under them, making noises that mixed with the sound of their skin, and Regulus placed his sharp nails on his back to push him down to whisper incoherencies in his ear.

“I waited so long for this,” he whimpered after a particularly hard thrust, “wanted you for so long. Wish we could stay like this forever, the world ending at this door, so there’s nothing beyond my–my bedroom waiting for you.”

“Quit trying to monopolize me, even if there’s a world outside, it’s fine, because I’ll keep coming back to you.”

“Promise?”

He probably shouldn’t make promises trapped between Regulus’s legs, cock buried deep inside and his head in the clouds. “Promise.”

“Good. Now please fuck me harder because I’m close.”

Sirius pinned him down by the shoulders, and rolled his hips as fast as he could, feeling as the long, thin legs around him locked harder, pushing him deeper, drops of sweat forming on his forehead as he lost himself in the white hot bliss of Regulus tightening around him. He placed a hand back to the leaking cock beneath him, earning a delightful cry as his thumb brushed the tip and moved down to stroke the thin, long cock. His cock, all red from the stimulation, shining with a coat of the lube Sirius used, looked as pretty as the rest of him. Perhaps they could have a next round, and Sirius could take it in his mouth.

Regulus closed his eyes and reached Sirius’s back, nails painfully digging into the flesh, but Sirius was too lost to take notice of the pain, fully focusing on his thrusts. The hands over his back gripped tightly and the legs around him trembled as Regulus came on his hand with a long soft moan, tightening impossibly around him and opening his glassy eyes with a lost look, and Sirius picked up his pace so he could come before Reg came back from his haze and felt overstimulated.

His cock throbbed and he let out a groan as spurts of cum filled Regulus beneath him, and kept thrusting erratically until he let out the last drop and began softening. He pulled out, and drowned in the image beneath him: Regulus, completely debauched with seeds on his belly and leaking out of him.

God, this was so much better than he could ever imagine.

Regulus seemed to have come down of his haze, because he pushed him down for a sloppy kiss, wet and hot, and they settled under the sheets, still covered in sweat and cum.

“You changed,” Sirius broke the silence.

“Hm, really? How so?” Regulus asked, voice dragged by exhaustion.

“It’s just… you seem more assured of yourself now.”

“Well, I’ve been relying on myself for quite long now. Couldn’t stay like a sheltered child forever.”

Sirius hummed and placed a hand on jet black hair. How he missed caressing Regulus. His soft hair, tonight with a faint smell of bergamot and rosemary, his face, a graceful variation of the typical Black traits, the sensitive skin of his tights.

And for the first time, he rested, knowing he crossed a threshold for a place without a way out. He willingly let himself get trapped onto Regulus’s bed, by his gracious hands unmooring his deepest desire with certainty, and found this was, after all, the best decision he could make.


End file.
